Motherhood – Page 2 – Life is a rollercoaster

Happy birthday Miss C

To the most amazing person I know,

This week has felt hard for me. I’ve been teary most days. The realisation that you are entering a new phase of your life as you become a teenager and your dad is not here to see it has struck me this week. Of the three birthdays you’ve now had since he died, this is the one I’ve found the most challenging. But that’s grief and loss for you. Just odd.

But I don’t want that to detract from today. Because today is the day I get to celebrate the day you came into the world. The day you made me a mother. It is a day I hope I never forget. Meeting you for the first time, holding you for the first time and realising my life would never quite be the same again. We loved you before we even met you. Of course we did. Our very first scan when you started hitting with your fists because, quite frankly, you’d had enough of being prodded about! We should have known then what a feisty little character you’d turn out to be. The reality is though we loved you from the moment we first found out I was pregnant, you were a very longed for and wanted baby. Your dad had always, always wanted to be a father and finally he was going to get the chance to do just that.

As I sat wrapping your presents last night, I thought back to the night before you were born. It’s the weirdest thing in the world for me not having anyone to reminisce about that with now. There’s so much about that evening I remember, what we were watching, the timings of it all, the weather etc… I know it’s down to me to document that for your future. I feel untold pressure that I am the only one that can give you your history and answer your questions now, I want you to know everything. If the last few years have taught me anything it’s that we all need to know about our past, because when others have gone it’s all we have left. And none of us can promise to be here to share it at another point in time.

I vividly remember us bringing you home from the hospital and me looking at your dad and saying “what are we meant to do now?” Because nobody gave me a manual when I became a mother. Nobody told me what I was meant to do. Sure, I knew the basics. Feed you, clothe you, change you but there was so much more that I had no real concept of. It was a learning curve for both me and your dad. No matter how prepared we might have felt going into that pregnancy. I suspect it’s how most new parents feel, the phrase winging it which has become such a big part of our lives probably started right back then. That was the start of one of the most wonderful rollercoaster rides of my life, the rollercoaster of being your mother.

And my. What a rollercoaster it has been. That it will continue to be. Because that’s something I wasn’t really prepared for. The pride and love as you grow up and achieve new things, while at the same time wanting you to stay as you are forever. I loved having a newborn, I really did. Someone to just sit and cuddle, who didn’t argue with you… I still remember starting to doubt myself when you really started to develop your own personality around the age of two. I have never felt so unsure of anything in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I was “good enough” to be your mum. A phrase that has repeatedly been part of my life. I won’t lie because I did struggle at this time. I didn’t know how to be good enough for you. It’s something that I’ve always strived for, not to be the perfect mother because I don’t believe this is possible, but to be the good enough mother. If only I’d have known then, what I know now…

As when you were born, nobody gave me a manual when your dad died. Nobody could have ever told me how to parent a bereaved child. There is a part of me that would give absolutely anything to have changed what you’ve gone through. For you to never have experienced a fraction of what you have. I suspect I’ll feel this way forever. But the reality is that I can’t do this. Life doesn’t work like that. I mean, you reminded me of that one day when you were about four and I said you weren’t being very fair on me “mum, you always tell me life isn’t fair, so…” In that moment, I didn’t know whether to feel proud, laugh or tell you off for being cheeky! Like I say the scan should have taught me how feisty you would go on to become.

And that’s the simple truth isn’t it? Life isn’t fair. You know that more than most. But what you also know more than most is that surviving anything life throws at you is absolutely possible. Because you’re doing it. Right now, whether you think you are or not, you’re doing it. And I am so unbelievably proud of you. If you remember nothing else as you go through your life, I want you to remember that. I am so unbelievably proud of you. Your dad was so unbelievably proud of you. Remember that you are loved. I love you more than anything (even Jason. And that young lady is saying something!) Your dad loved you more than anything. If he’d have known what was going to happen to him and that you would grow up without him, it would have absolutely broken his heart. I’m so thankful he didn’t, I’d have hated to watch that and it would have changed the time the two of you had together. He fought so hard to beat COVID-19, he fought so hard to come home to you and I’m sure his final act of love for you was walking down the stairs to that waiting ambulance. I’m sure he didn’t want you to see him carried out of the house. He loved you, and even at that moment, you would have been his priority. There is no doubt in my mind about that.

I like to think of him now as your guardian angel. Your protector. I can fully imagine him rolling his eyes a little bit at you though. The sudden fascination with Marvel and in particular Spiderman… The dresses which don’t reach your ankles anymore… The heels… The make up… But I’m also sure that he’s also smiling at all of this. Because from afar he’s watching his baby grow up into an amazing, beautiful, thoughtful young lady. I know you think this is all nonsense, but I do like to think of him still watching over you.

He was always way more prepared for you growing up than I was. He always knew each of the phases of your life wouldn’t last for long. He’d probably be coping with this way better than I am. The video he did for you on your 10^th birthday proved that. He always found a way of showing his love via creativity and music. Makes perfect sense really where you get it from. You’re so very much like him. It’s one of the many, many things I love about you.

Yet while I wish I could freeze time at times and keep you as you are, equally I am so excited at watching you grow up. At being privileged to physically see the person you are becoming. The person who binge watches programmes your dad and I used to watch together. The person who is my travel buddy. The person that takes control on the subway when I get slightly confused. The person who puts so much thought into gifts for me. The person with an entrepreneurial spirit. The person so determined to achieve her dreams. The person who 100% has not let her experiences in life define her but is instead using them to shape her. To teach her. The person who is becoming independent of me and needing me in a different way. It’s hard adjusting to that, I must admit, but it reassures me that we’ve done a good enough job in raising you. That you don’t need me in the same way you once did. And if I turn into the crazy cat lady you’re hoping for, I will do it with a smile on my face knowing that I can only do it because of who you are. The person your dad and I taught you to be.

So, here’s to you Miss Charlesworth. Here’s to the next little part of the rollercoaster of mother and daughter. Here’s to me getting more grey hairs now the teenage years are here! I genuinely can’t wait to see where life takes you now. I promise that for as long as I can, I will never let go of you, but I will let you go your own way, help you learn from your mistakes, never, ever judge you and be the biggest supporter you’ll ever have.

Happy birthday baby girl. I love you to the moon and back again. For always.

Mum xx

Goodbye 2022

Wow. 2022 is done. Pretty sure that’ll go down in my history as that was the year that was. A year that took so much. A year that gave so much. A year that made me look at the world differently. A year that feels like it could have been about 10 years in one in all honesty.

Before writing this, I read back the blog I wrote this time last year. I ended it with the phrase “I am good enough.” Funny. Within six weeks I wasn’t feeling this anymore. My world capitulated. I was signed off work sick. I was forced to stop. I was forced to really and truly look after me. I don’t doubt when I wrote that blog that I meant it, but now I just think I was still trying to convince myself. I’m not convinced now that I properly believed it.

But that’s how grief works. That’s how stress works. You think you’re ok. You think you’ve made progress. But it’s only when you look back at where you were that you realise that while you were ok and had made progress, it wasn’t nearly as much as you thought you’d made. I remember looking at a photo of from New Year’s Eve last year and saying that the smile reached my eyes and I wanted to hold on to that feeling. But again, that smile faded relatively quickly.

I honestly thought going into this year that I was a lot further ahead than I was. I didn’t realise the effect that stress was having on me. I didn’t realise that my emotional resilience simply isn’t as strong as it once was. I doubt it ever will be again. I’d spent 2021 adjusting to reality and trying so very hard to keep going, to keep things as they’d always been, that I didn’t think about what was best for me as I started to look for coping mechanisms for adjusting to my new life.

As I look back over this year, I realise that I spent a lot of 2022 looking for distraction techniques. I absolutely know that I did it. I gave so much of myself to others as a way of stopping me thinking about me and what I was distracting myself from. And for what? Were these the people messaging me on Christmas Day to wish a Merry Christmas? No. People who are willing to take and not give back aren’t really the people that someone like me needs. Plus I’ve learnt something invaluable in the last few months. Distraction only really works in the short term. It’s only really preventing the inevitable. You can only really jump from one distraction to another for a short amount of time. It’s quite tiring for this to be sustained.

But it’s fair to say that new people have become a big part of my life this year. In an odd sort of way, it’s easier talking to and being with these people. The people who didn’t know me before (my life genuinely feels marked by the timeline of before Mr C died and after). Yes, I talk about him with them. But it’s on my terms. I like and enjoy being with people that didn’t know him, that only know me and accept me for who I am now. This is no doubt incredibly selfish of me, but when you’re trying to work out who you are and find your way, you sometimes have to be selfish.

A perfect example is someone who has become an integral part of my life this year. I received a message recently because of a conversation they’d had about me. “I don’t think we’d have met if she hadn’t lost her husband, and I’d give anything for that to be the situation” was the phrase that hit home. Because that’s it. My life is now on a different trajectory. With different people. With a different outlook. With a different mentality. I hate “what ifs” but they’re all par for the course. They’re what mess with my head the most. If Mr C hadn’t have died, what would my life be like? Who would be in it? What experiences would I have had?

Online dating is a prime example of something I wouldn’t have entertained if he was still here. And after my small foray into it this year, I do still sort of like the idea and haven’t totally given up that one day in the future someone may care for me or love me again (damn those cheesy Christmas films I’ve been watching! Although if anyone knows a widower like Jude Law, please send him my way!) But someone else in my life is still not something Miss C is willing to entertain. And that’s perfectly understandable and something we’ll have to work through if the Jude Law widower appears. Right now though, she much prefers the idea of me being on my own forever and becoming a Crazy Cat Lady with nine cats. Touching really.

But even creating an online profile is something that a year ago I wouldn’t have felt capable of doing. It wasn’t on the agenda. I know I said this at the end of 2021: “I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to” but attempting to date wasn’t one of those plans. Damn those curveballs. And I also know I didn’t achieve as many of those ambitions as I wanted to because of curveballs and distraction techniques. But add those to your world capitulating within six weeks and it’s actually very hard to.

But I have achieved some of those plans. And so very much more. I’ve seen Jason (once or twice!), I’ve had weekends away and nights out with the girls, I’ve done a lot more as “Emma” (including meeting Ronan Keating, not sure my sister will forgive me if I don’t mention that!), I’ve been to Wales and Scotland for two Widowed and Young (WAY) events, my blog was nominated for the Helen Bailey Award, I’ve appeared on TV as part of the Kelsey Parker: Life After Tom documentary, I’ve participated in a 25 Tuesday’s with WAY Instagram Live, I’ve spoken on the panel at the launch of the UK Commission on Bereavement’s “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report, I’ve hosted a fundraising event in memory of Mr C raising £3,500 for Medway Hospital’s Critical Care unit, I’ve launched a 2023 calendar featuring his photos and I’ve joined my daughter on an Instagram live with Winston’s Wish.

And on Miss C. This hasn’t been an easy year for her. The secondary losses she’s adjusting to have felt worse this year. But as a pair, we’re getting there. We’re finding a rhythm. We can argue like cat and dog at times. But we keep going. My proudest moment of the year was watching her dance at Disneyland Paris with her dance school. I’d have paid a fortune just to see that smile again, but I didn’t need to. Her being able to perform gave her that. We’ve managed overseas trips together. Florida, Paris and New York. I’m not going to lie, there’s been tricky moments during all of these trips. But somehow, we get through them. We’ve got through so much worse, we’re still living with pain and we always will be, but our little rhythm is picking up a bit of pace.

And these trips are just some of the firsts we’ve had to do in 2022. Anyone that tells you all the firsts are done within the first year is wrong. Partly because we lost in a pandemic. This year has also seen us return to the theatre for the annual panto trip for Miss C’s birthday, we’ve seen Mr C’s football team for the first time at a charity match which raised money for WAY in his memory, Miss C did her first dance show since 2019, her first dance show Christmas party (where I incidentally performed a Street dance having started lessons in September, although I’m not sure she was as proud of me as I was of her in Paris!!!!), and a return to friends for their annual Christmas gathering.

Life has slowly, slowly returned to “normal” this year. Except it isn’t our normal. Our normal was with Mr C. But he’s not here anymore. I don’t actually know what our normal is. I don’t know if I ever will. I’ll always be a widow. My daughter will always be growing up without her father. In fact, I’ve repeatedly told her this hasn’t been a normal year. It’s exceptionally unlikely we’ll ever have a year filled with as much as we have this year. I think we’ve got one more theatre trip to do and then we’re finally caught up on rescheduled dates.

I know that 2023 will be very different. The theatre trips and days out will be less, the overseas trips won’t be able to happen as frequently, I’ve got to adjust to being a one salary household against a cost of living crisis and the return to normal activities. There’s going to be some tough decisions coming my way because of this. I know that. I’ve got decisions to make regarding my future career, in the short term, medium term and long term. Sacrifices are going to have to be made. Nearly three years since my late husband died, I’m now in a position where the world is open, costs are higher and life on my own is harder.

But. I will make these decisions. They feel a little overwhelming but I’ll make them. Because it’s what I do. I’m so exceptionally proud of 2022 and all I’ve achieved. But the thing I’m proud of most of all is the fact that I’m still standing. 11 months ago I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown. It was one of the biggest wake up calls I’ve ever had to face. Something had to give. I had to stop. I had to look after me. It’s taken a hell of a lot of adjusting for me.

If I’m honest, it’s a little scary feeling more in control, because I wonder what I’m now actually capable of. What comes next for Emma? If I strip back the distraction techniques, the need to constantly be busy, the constant trying to find out who I am and the acceptance that I am not Wonder Woman, what can I achieve? I don’t know. It’s going to be exciting to find out so bring on 2023. Because if 2022 has taught me anything, it’s to remember the words to a song I say is my song and regularly tell myself:

“Don’t you know I’m still standing better than I ever did?

Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid

And I’m still standing after all this time.”

Children are resilient

Family photos of The Charlesworth Family

I want to start this by saying I’m no expert on grief. I’m no expert on bereavement. I’m no expert on childhood bereavement. But what I am an expert on is my child. My child who, at the age of 10, watched as her beloved father grew steadily weaker and more ill because of COVID-19. Who watched as her father walked out of our house to an ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. Who then never physically saw him again. Just think about that for a moment. It’s not fiction. It’s real. This is what happened to my beautiful, clever, amazing 10-year-old.

One of the very first things that was said to me in amongst all this carnage was “children are resilient.” It was said in a way to make me feel better, to make me feel that she would be ok despite our world crumbling around us. It wasn’t meant with any malice at all, because fundamentally children are resilient in a way that is different to adults. They are far more black and white, they are far more pragmatic, they see the world in a different way to us. But over the last two and a half years, this phrase has come back to haunt me time and time again. Because I can’t help but wonder if we are actually doing children a disservice by using this phrase and immediately telling them and their families how resilient they are. Yes, they might be, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t suffer, that they don’t feel pain, that their lives aren’t ridiculously changed forever, that they aren’t ridiculously changed forever. And quite simply, this is what has happened to my daughter.

She was a relatively carefree 10-year-old when the pandemic came into our lives. She was never meant to have been an only child, but after Mr C’s cancer we didn’t even know if we’d be able to have a child, and then after my miscarriage, we decided to just be thankful for the child we did have and that was that. I’ve wondered on more than one occasion how different her experience of bereavement and grief would have been had she had a sibling to share the pain and the loss with. It’s one of those “what if” questions that should never be asked and will never be answered.

And while I say carefree, she hadn’t always had it easy. She’d had to watch me hit rock bottom at the age of eight. She’d had to watch my nan’s health decline due to Alzheimer’s from the age of six (just six weeks before the diagnosis, she’d still been having sleepovers with my nan and baking cakes). She’d seen the usual marital arguments that happen. But, overall, she didn’t really have that much to worry about in her life. We tried to make as many memories with her as possible, we knew that she would only be a child for so long and that we needed to make the most of our time with her. I will be beyond grateful for the rest of my life that we took this approach and have a wealth of memories and photos to look back on.

But as the pandemic seemed to grow in its severity, the biggest worry and challenge I thought she was going to face was that of isolation, of not being at school, of not being able to go to dance lessons, of not seeing her friends and just being stuck with two adults in the house. But I didn’t worry too much, because children are resilient… Little did I know what she was actually going to face. I will never, ever forget the early hours of 30 March 2020 when she woke up to hear her father struggling for breath, me making a 999 call and seeing the utter panic and desperation I felt. Yes, I tried to say calm for her but in that moment I’m sure she saw it. She knew. And then, in a reality that will forever pain me, I had to leave her on her own when the paramedics arrived because they needed me. My 10-year-old had to sit on her own in our lounge, whilst knowing that upstairs people were trying to save her father and the only comfort she could get was via my mum on the phone because no-one could come in our house. But that’s ok right? Because children are resilient.

The next three weeks sort of passed in a blur. There were days we didn’t make it out of our PJs. There were days we’d have cake for breakfast and brownies for lunch. There was the day a week before he died when I had to sit her down and tell her that he was very poorly (understatement of the year) and might never come home. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I remember saying to her. “Yes, you’re saying daddy might die” was her response. Pragmatic. Real. She was bloody amazing. And then the Skype calls came. I didn’t do the first one with her because I wasn’t sure what he’d look like but having done that one, I knew she’d be ok seeing him. Each day I would ask if she wanted to talk to daddy and her response was always “well, I’ll talk to him today because he’s here today isn’t he and might not be tomorrow.” I told this story when I was on a panel at the UK Commission on Bereavement “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report launch and you could hear a pin drop. I saw members of the audience crying. It hit me then. Just how much I’ve come to accept what we went through because we were living it. How I’ve probably downplayed our experience because it was ours. And yet when other people hear it, they consider it heart-breaking.

But. The attitude and philosophy that my daughter adopted during that final week kept me going, because if she could do it, then so could I. And then the fateful day came. The call came. Hope had gone. He was going to die. She was actually about to become a child whose father had died. My biggest fear had been realised. Again, we did a Skype call and this was our chance to say goodbye. I can still remember her saying to him “I’ve not really got anything else to say to you now, I haven’t done much, I’ll go talk to nana and come back in a bit” (my mum was sat on our driveway at the time). Because let’s face it. Children are resilient. This was just something else she was dealing with.

And let’s be honest. She didn’t really have a choice but to deal with it. We were living in the middle of a global pandemic. Her father had died. I couldn’t make this any better for her. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real. Both of us had to deal with it. But unlike me, she didn’t cry. For weeks, if not months, she didn’t cry. She queried this with me because she didn’t understand why not. “Everyone grieves differently, please don’t worry about it” was my reply. It was all I had. The day of the funeral, she didn’t cry. She stood in the crematorium, did a reading with me, and didn’t cry. Shock. That’s what she was experiencing. Shock. I didn’t really realise it at the time, but like I say I’m an expert on my child and now I can say she was in shock. She was in shock for such a very long time. My amazingly brilliant, resilient child had experienced pain that no child should ever experience. She not only experienced loss, but went on to experience isolation, a lack of physical contact, her mother falling apart and secondary losses. Yet all the while people kept telling me that she’d be ok. Because children are resilient.

What I hadn’t really realised at the time and didn’t really realise until this year is how she aged overnight. Not just mentally, but physically. Her eyes took on a sudden weariness. She looked older. Yes, partly because she was growing up, but also partly because of the trauma she went through. And I realised this in the simplest of ways this year. We went to Florida for three weeks; it was our treat to ourselves after the heartache we’d gone through. We did a day trip out of the parks one day and she asked me for a cuddly toy as a memory, before then I couldn’t tell you the last time she asked for one. On the coach back to the hotel, she cuddled that toy. I snapped a photo and sent it to my sister. “She looks so young” was her response. And that was it. That was the moment I saw it. Our three weeks in Florida enabled my daughter to be a child again, to not have a care in the world and ultimately, to regress. She got back a little bit of her childhood on that holiday. I cried on the plane on the way home, partly because I felt I was leaving Mr C there but also because I felt I’d got my little girl back. She had been given the space and ability to be a child again. It was a momentous feeling. I wanted to keep her like this forever.

But back to reality we came. She said something to me a couple of weeks later after a difficult few days and it just winded me. “People don’t ask me how I am anymore, it’s been over two years, I’m supposed to be ok with it now aren’t I?” Because time is meant to be a healer, isn’t it? But sadly, the misconception that exists because we’re “trained” to believe that children are resilient is that they don’t suffer for any length of time. That they just bounce back from whatever comes their way. That they don’t experience pain in the same way. That grief doesn’t affect them. Without question it does. And it’s something that will be a part of them forever. I wonder how we can change that, because in my opinion it needs to be changed. Unless you’ve witnessed it first-hand, you have no real idea of what grief, trauma and pain can do to a child.

I won’t talk about all the ways I can see that she’s been affected and what it’s like for her because that’s her story to tell and I don’t want to divulge it. Maybe one day, but not now. Not while she’s living it. But what I can tell you as her mother is that she is 100% affected by her loss. That she is 100% struggling to work through and process what has happened to her. Losing her hero. Losing her protector. Losing one half of her history. And quite simply, why wouldn’t she be? It doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, it just means she’s human. It just means that she’s experienced one of the most awful things that she possibly could, and she needs to be allowed time and space to work through it. She needs love and care. She needs people to ask her how she is. She needs to talk about her dad. She needs to know that all of how she is feeling is ok.

And interestingly enough, from my perspective, it is this that I believe will build her resilience and help her as she goes through the teenage years and adulthood. Needing help doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, that she’s mad, that she can’t cope or that she’s weird. It just means she’s human and vulnerable. And I will be there with her on every step of this journey. I am so grateful for the child bereavement charities that I’ve spoken to who have given me guidance, who have supported her and will continue to support her.

But most of all, as her mother, I couldn’t be prouder of her for the way she has responded over the last couple of years. It’s not been easy; I’d be lying if I said it had. But I hope that she’ll retain the human and vulnerable elements to her as she gets older, because they’ll be two of the most valuable qualities she’ll ever possess. I hope that her experience doesn’t define her but instead helps shape her. To help her go into adulthood retaining that realistic and pragmatic view on the world. To truly understand that being resilient doesn’t mean that you don’t find things hard. That you don’t suffer. That it’s ok to need help now and then. And without question, I know that if she takes this into adulthood, it’s something that her dad would be very proud of her for doing too.

I am not Wonder Woman

Image of quote regarding vulnerability being a superpower and image of a caricature

To be honest, that title could just be the blog. Done. There’s not much else to say really. But for someone who spent years saying to her daughter “have you ever seen me and Wonder Woman in the same room? How do you know I’m not her then?” to finally be admitting I’m not takes a heck of a lot. Especially given three months ago I asked to be portrayed as her in a caricature!

But now, at the age of 41, two and half years to the day after being widowed, I will finally admit it. I am not Wonder Woman.

I’ve always had a fairly crazy and hectic life. For years, we had this life together. Mr C and I would often be like passing ships in the night, I worked full time, he worked full time, he was a part-time photographer, he was in two bands, we had a child etc, etc… So many people would say to us “I don’t know how you do it” and I feel like I now know what I’d say to them.

Having been without him for what feels like forever, it’s funny (or ironic really) looking back. The amount of times that I would say to him that I’d just like it if he did more, that I’d appreciate more help and that I was sick of doing everything by myself. But the simple reality is that he did way more than I think I ever gave him credit for. And now, two and half years after his death and with the world pretty much back to a pre-pandemic state, I totally appreciate that. I feel so sad that I didn’t really see it and value it when he was here. That I never said “thank you” enough.

It’s taken such a long time for me to have to worry about and manage living again. I was shielded after he first fell ill and died because the world was shut down. We didn’t have to worry about a social life, we didn’t really have to worry about living. We were just essentially surviving. We 100% needed to do this, it was the only way for us to begin to process what had happened to us. To adjust to life just the two of us. We became insular because the world made us that way. And in many ways, I’m so incredibly grateful for that. We only really had to focus on each other, we had no choice but to learn to live without him in our lives, we couldn’t hide from it because it was so bloody obvious and apparent he wasn’t there. He was gone, never ever coming back and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.

But over the course of 2021, I realised that was never going to be sustainable. I realised we couldn’t avoid life forever. I spent a lot of last year saying that 2022 was going to be our year. The year we’d start living again. We’d spent a long time in shock. We’d spent a long time with life on hold. We’d spent a long time keeping him ever present in our lives. We’ll always do that, but I knew we’d need to find a way to keep him ever present while moving forwards. Not moving on, I don’t like that phrase, but moving forwards.

Yet what I’ve come to realise more than ever this year is that everyday life is hard work. Being a mother is hard work. Being a widow is hard work. Being a person trying to forge a future is hard work. Wanting a career is hard work. I’m exhausted most of the time trying to juggle everything. My entire life feels like a military mission. Spontaneity is not a word that ever really enters my vocabulary. At the start of September, I sat down and worked out all the days I wanted to go into the office between then and Christmas. Then I had to check that my doggy daycare lady could have my dog on those days. Then I had to check my mum was available to help with my daughter and pick the dog up on some of those days. My poor mum and stepdad now have a column on their organiser calendar just for us. Without them I’d really struggle. To go to the office. To have a social life. To live. I completely took this for granted before I was widowed. I’d just let Mr C know if I’d made plans and he’d be the one at home with our daughter instead. And vice versa. I just went to work. Simple really. I’d be up and out of the house before either Mr C or our daughter got up, he’d then get her ready in the morning and drop her at her childminder. This was our life; I didn’t have to think about it. But now, I have to ask for help simply to go to work. Crazy really. It’s the little things that you take for granted.

It’s one of the reasons that I feel quite passionately that I am not a single parent. I have friends who are single parents and they’re all blinking amazing. But I’m not. Yes, it might sound like semantics to someone not in my position, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m a solo parent. It’s bloody relentless. My daughter is, and always will be my priority, but it’s relentless. I can’t take it for granted that I can go out when invited, because if I don’t have a babysitter, it doesn’t happen. Every decision about her, every financial aspect of her life, all the running around, the organising, the arguments, the good times are all down to me. I can’t play good cop, bad cop with someone else when it comes to disciplining her anymore because I’m literally the only cop in the house! I miss co-parenting, I miss having someone to sanity check decisions about her with, I miss having someone that was my equal when it came to her. I reckon I always will. No matter how old she is.

But it’s not just parenting where I miss an equal. It’s in the day to day running of a house. Absolutely everything falls to me. I’ve said before about wanting to borrow my friend’s husband on a Tuesday because that’s my busiest night of the week and this really came to the fore earlier this year. I’d been to see Ronan Keating with my sister on a Tuesday, I got home at 12:45am and promptly realised I needed to put the bins out. Because my mum had picked my daughter up from school, they’d got the dog from daycare and then stayed at my mum’s, they’d had no need to go back to my house. And given no-one else is there, there simply was no-one to put the bins out except me. Reality of being a widow 101. You can go out, have a brilliant day and evening, and then come home to be brutally reminded that you are on your own and have to do everything. It sucks. No other way about it. Coming home and being able to just go to bed without having to sort anything out first rarely ever happens now.

I’m basically always on 99% of the time. Trying to do everything I’ve always done. Trying to work. Trying to be the organiser. Trying to have a social life. Trying to be there for everyone. Trying to give my daughter the same life she had before Mr C died. Over the last 10 days I’ve spoken at the UK Commission of Bereavement report launch, been to the office four times, helped at an event I’ve been involved with since 2004, seen Jason in Grease twice (crazy even by my standards!), been to the Warner Brothers Harry Potter Studio Tour and dealt with the usual juggling. I used to be a pro at a life like this, but looking at the photos, I can see how tired I look. These photos show me I’m not the same person as I used to be. Yet I know I’ve spent a heck of a lot of 2022 attempting to prove I am. Trying to prove I can do this. Prove I can do it all. We’ve done countless theatre trips (a number of which were rearranged from 2020 and 2021) and days out, we’ve been to Florida, we’ve been to Disneyland Paris, we’re going to New York. All of which are beyond bittersweet because we can only do them because of his death, but we’ve done them.

And more than this, since he fell ill and died, I’ve had so many people comment on how much I’ve done to keep his memory alive and honour him. The funeral, the memorial service, the charity event, the memorial bench, the podcasts, the newspaper and magazine articles, the blog, the charity calendar, becoming an Ambassador for Widowed and Young… I always retort with “but this is what anyone would do” but now I’m not so sure. Now, I suspect I’ve done it all because I’m simply terrified of him being forgotten, of what I will do with my life if I’m not desperately trying to keep his memory alive. And above all else. Now I wonder if I was doing it, as I did with the dating app, to prove that I could.

But, who the heck am I trying to prove anything to? Nobody puts any pressure or expectation on me. Expect one person. Me.

I’ve clung desperately to try to be the wonder woman I was before he died. Because to admit I’m not and I can’t do it all without him makes me feel like a failure. I’m a strong, independent woman who can do this by herself, why shouldn’t I have the life I’ve always had? Why shouldn’t I be able to give our daughter the life she’s always had? To adjust our lives, to accept I can’t do it all, to accept that running a house, managing the finances, working, raising a child, having a social life, buying all the presents, planning and everything else that goes with being a grown up means I have to accept that my emotional resilience has been irrevocably altered by his death. It means I have to accept I’m not who I was before. But that’s the reality. My life can’t be the same as it was before. Because I am 100% not who I was before. I can’t be two people and do everything two people did. The simple, hard-hitting truth is that our lives are different. I just wasn’t given a choice as to whether I wanted them to be.

Recently, very good friends of mine (the sort of friends you’ll allow to be brutally honest with you) have started asking me to slow down. They’ve told me that they’re exhausted just watching me. That they’re worried about me and what I’m trying to hide from by keeping continually busy. But I can honestly say that I don’t think I’m hiding from anything. I simply think I’m someone who is still struggling to find her way as a widow. To know where she fits in this world now. To get the balance right. To learn how to be an adult by herself. To feel confident in raising a child by herself.

Don’t tell them, but they’re right. I know and I feel that I need to slow down. I’ve proven that I can have a manic life like I had before. The reality is though that I don’t want it. I find it insanely hard work. I started this blog by saying I can respond to the phrase “I don’t know how you do it” and it’s simple. It’s taken the world opening up again to help me see it, it’s taken two and a half years since becoming a widow to see it, it’s taken the sheer exhaustion of life to help me see it. I could do it because I was part of a team, there were two of us, we shared responsibility for our daughter, we shared responsibility for everything. I could pretend to be Wonder Woman because I had my own superhero that meant I had a shot at achieving it.

So, while it pains me to admit it, this is my first step in pausing, breathing, slowing down and not trying to be a wonder woman and do it all. I realise now that not all superheroes wear capes. It doesn’t mean I’m a failure. It means I’m simply human. It means I have the greatest superpower of them all. Vulnerability. Couple that with the superhero and guardian angel who will always have my back, and who knows where that’s going to take me. Changes need to happen. Changes are coming. I am not Wonder Woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve, and can’t live a wonderful life that’s fulfilling but less hectic. It’s time to reprioritise. It’s time to refocus. It’s time to take control of me and my new life.

I owe it to our daughter. I owe it to Mr C. But most importantly. I owe it to me.

A mother’s love…

Recently, someone shared a video in the Widowed and Young group on Facebook of an interview which Martin Lewis had done a few years ago. In it, he spoke about the death of his mother and how that had affected his life. There was one phrase that really hit me “that was the end of my childhood.” I was sat in the car park of our local Dunelm at the time of watching and it just made me sob. And made me think about my own child. It made me realise something that I’d not really thought about before. I’m the mother of a child whose childhood ended at the age of 10.

Because it really did. Yes, I’ve done my very best to keep things as “normal” for her as possible. Yes, I’ve managed to make it possible for her to keep doing a number of things she did before the death of her father. But the simple fact is, she has been exposed to the harshest of realities. She grew up, essentially, overnight. She lost a parent. One half of the team that had been keeping her safe and protecting her for 10 years disappeared. The person who had got her up every day. Her hero. She lost him. In the most surreal of times.

Of all the people who are grieving the loss of my late husband, it is my child that my heart breaks for the most. Even more so than for my own loss. Because as I look at it, I was fortunate enough to have known him since I was 15 years old. I’d been in a relationship with him since I was 18. He’d been in my life for over 20 years. I have so many memories of him. I had so many experiences with him. We’d done so much together. All that potential has been stolen from our daughter. She no longer has a future with her father. Studies have been done as to what age children start having memories from, and the general consensus is that it’s around seven years old. That means she has just three years of memories with her dad. And they’re meant to last her a lifetime. Except they won’t. Because it’s only natural that other things will come into her brain and start to replace them. Yes, she’ll remember things (I’m not saying she won’t) but if I was to sit here now and talk to you about my life between the ages of seven and 10, how much can I really remember? Not a huge amount.

I listen to her say that when she’s 20, her dad will have been dead half her lifetime. I watched her sleep in my bed for 18 months after he was rushed to ITU because she was so terrified that something was going to go happen to me too. I watched her completely struggle with Christmas last year, because the magic of it had gone (her first year of not believing) and the reality of her dad not being here at Christmas was too much for her. These little things remind me that she is actually still a child. A child in pain. But when I think back to that Martin Lewis interview, there is so much of her that I’ve seen that feels as though her childhood is over.

When she’s been sent messages that, in my opinion, should never have been sent to a child, she was the one who wanted to write the responses. She didn’t want me step in and deal with them for her. And respond she did, in the most eloquent and articulate of ways. I was so, so proud of her. But at the same time, my heart broke that tiny bit more, because I knew I hadn’t been able to stop the hurt she was feeling because of it. I knew I couldn’t make it better for her. My role as her mother is, and always will be, to protect her and try to stop heartbreak. I spoke in my blog on Mothering Sunday last year about how much of a fierce Mama Bear I’ve become. But over the last year, I’ve had to make sure I don’t unleash the Mama Bear too often, because my daughter has become more ready to take on the next battle herself. Partly this is due to her age, and the transition to secondary school, but also when your heart has been broken in the way hers has, you’re not really afraid to take on the world. You’re not really afraid of anymore hurt because, to a certain extent, it feels inconsequential compared to what you’ve gone through.

She’s also become so very much more adult like in her interactions with me. I still have to remind her on a regular basis that she is a child, and needs to do as she’s asked, but the crux of the matter is that she has had to step up these last two years. She was the only person in the house with me for such a long time after my late husband died. She has had to physically help me get up off the floor. She has watched her mother fall apart and break on more than one occasion. She has been the one to frequently see my tears and ask “why are you crying mummy, what can I do to help?” She is the one who has given me pep talks and reality checks when the going has got really tough. She has, to a certain extent, become a carer for me. Not out of choice, but because she is the only one living with me 24/7 and seeing the pain I’ve been living with. She is the one who has stepped up to do chores to get pocket money and sell her decoupage items so that she can save money to buy me presents for Mothering Sunday, Christmas and my birthday. This was pretty much dealt with for the first year, but she now feels it’s not fair on my sister or my mother to buy presents on her behalf anymore. She feels a responsibility. A responsibility to not only look after her mother, but to provide for her when needed too. All this at the age of 12. It’s no wonder that I feel that I’m a mother to a child whose childhood has ended.

I look back at my own childhood. To a certain degree, I wonder if this is what my mother felt after the breakdown of her marriage. Because I know that I had to step up then too. I helped look after my sister, so my mother was able to do things. Not least of which was doing three jobs. I don’t know the full financial implications and arrangements following my parent’s divorce, I didn’t need to at the time, I was a child after all, but I do know that my mother did three jobs so that she was able to continue to treat us. She wanted us to be able to go on holiday or to concerts (she possibly regrets that now though given my Jason Donovan and my sister’s Boyzone obsessions!!) I will always be beyond grateful to my mother for everything she sacrificed and did for us when we were growing up.

I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like for her when she had to watch her eldest child tell her child that her father was going to die. Heartbroken and helpless is all I can assume. Because I don’t think there ever really comes a time when your child is not your baby. I say to my own daughter that she’s my baby and she responds with “I’m not a baby.” No. She isn’t. But she is my baby. And she always will be. My mother would probably tell you that I’m her baby. Over the past two years, I’ve watched her try to do more and more for me. Despite me saying “I’m nearly 40 / I’m in my 40s / I can do it myself.” She felt helpless for so long because of the restrictions in place, that I suspect there’s an element that now she can help, it helps her to help me. She gets cross when I don’t wash my car, so takes it off my drive and does it for me. She’ll turn up with my stepdad when he mows the lawn to do some gardening for me. When my washing machine broke earlier this year and the repair took longer than anticipated, she did all our washing. And would regularly bring it back ironed. She’ll cook us dinner if I’ve got a particularly hectic schedule. She helps out with my daughter and our puppy so that I’m able to go to the office or have nights out. Put simply. I would not have been able to achieve or do half as much as I have without her since I became a solo parent.

And this is against a backdrop of some fractious times. It hasn’t always been plain sailing between my mother and me. There may well be other challenges in the future. But it comes back to a mother’s love and what being a mother means to you no matter what the circumstances are surrounding the relationship. My late husband hadn’t spoken to his mother for many years before he died, and neither had I, but I will still acknowledge the pain she must feel. It’s why I’ve made sure I’ve sent her copies of photos, newspaper and magazine articles, in the same way I have for his father and his sisters, because, at the end of the day, she is a mother who has lost her child. She in return has written to tell me how proud she is of her son and to thank me for all I have done to keep his memory alive and to honour him. She will always be his mother. His death won’t that change that.

I can’t begin to comprehend and don’t claim to know what it must feel like to lose your child. I realised recently that my own daughter is now the age my cousin was when she died, and I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. Because I simply can’t imagine how I’d feel if my daughter’s life ended now. It goes against the natural order of things. When you become a mother, it isn’t something that you ever contemplate. I know from my own experience that I hadn’t expected to feel the unconditional love I do for my daughter, but I also know that I hadn’t expected the constant fear and worry that goes with being a mother. There is nothing I wouldn’t do in order to protect my daughter. From anyone and anything. And the knowledge that I can’t actually protect her from everything is heartbreaking.

But I also know that because of everything she’s gone, and continues to go through, she’s growing up with a very realistic outlook on the world. And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. I recently came across the Facebook post my late husband posted on Mothering Sunday 2019. It came after a particularly trying weekend. He said:

“You are a fantastic mother, so, if nothing else, take from today that achieving that accolade is not purely down to making your child happy. It is about teaching, guiding, encouraging and sometimes pushing your child to understand what it is to show compassion, kindness, respect and love, even if it, at times, feels like it is at the sacrifice of those things for yourself. This is why you are a great mother and why one day, you will reap the benefit of the seeds you sowed.”

I’ve had to continue to teach my daughter compassion, kindness, respect and love in a way that I know he wouldn’t have anticipated when he made that post in 2019. I’ve sacrificed so very much of myself these last two years since he came down with his temperature on Mothering Sunday 2020. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, because that is my role as a mother. But as I sit here now, I know that I can start to give a little bit of attention back to me because of the amazing person my daughter is becoming. I can’t properly articulate just how proud of her how I am. In the same way, my late husband’s mother is proud of her son. In the same way that my mother is proud of me. I have a child who makes me beyond proud. Every single day.

I know that she won’t let the death of her father beat her. When I watched the Martin Lewis interview and how he credited some of his success to the loss of his mother, I envisage in years to come hearing my daughter say something similar. She tries every single day to better herself. She has the steely determination of her father. She shows so much dedication to music, drama and theatrics, I’d put money on me one day watching her on a West End or Broadway stage. And whatever her future brings, I know that when I watch her achieve, I won’t feel the heartbreak anymore that her childhood ended so young. I’ll just feel enormous pride that the experience and hurt didn’t define her. That she used her experience to help her become the person she wanted to be. And as her mother, I won’t be able to ask for anything more.

Goodbye 2021

If 2020 was the year of shock, numbness and surrealness, then 2021 was the year of reality. The year of trying to adjust to our “new now” (I don’t like the phrase “new normal” as who is to say what is normal anyway?) I should have been writing this blog in New York. Our first overseas trip just the two of us, the prospect was both terrifying and exciting. But just over three weeks ago I made the decision to cancel, the reality was that everything about it was adding additional stress and worry, rising case numbers, change in testing regulations, closure of activities in New York. Need I go on? Because this is reality. I am still trying to adjust to widowhood and solo parenting while living in a pandemic. COVID-19 hasn’t gone away.

But what is different about the end of 2021 compared to the end of 2020 is that I consciously made a decision to avoid stress. I just don’t need it. I don’t need to be putting myself through it. I think back to this time last year. I crashed on 27 December, it was all I could do to get up each morning and when I did, I pretty much just laid on the sofa. Mr C’s Memorial Bench was installed on 29 December and I had to summon the energy to get off the sofa to see it. Because I’d run and run and run to get to Christmas. I’d done so much. I’d tried to do very personal keepsake gifts for his immediate family. I’d tried to make everything perfect for our daughter. I’d tried to honour him in every way I could. But do you know what? It didn’t make him come back. I didn’t get to Christmas Day, get a pat on the back and get told “well done, he can come home now.” Reality hit. I’d got to Christmas, put myself under so much pressure and for what? I was quite simply mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn’t go back to work. I had nothing left to give.

This was how I went into January 2021. Exhausted. And then reality give me a real slap in the face. One of my most loyal, closest friends who had done so much for me after Mr C died lost her partner to COVID-19 on 2 January. Two days into the New Year. I felt helpless. I couldn’t bear to see her. Because to see her would make this real. To see her would be to see the tears in her eyes and know that there was absolutely nothing I could do to take her pain away. This wasn’t meant to happen. Nobody else I loved was meant to go through this pain. I had to tell my daughter that once again the pandemic had taken someone from our lives. Someone who had made such a difference to my friend’s life. Who had put the sparkle back in her eyes.

And then reality and the unthinkable happened again a couple of weeks later. I received a text asking me to give my colleague a call. It was a little odd as I’d only spoken to her that morning and wasn’t working, but I still did it. She had to break the news to me that one of my colleagues had been killed in a road accident. He was just 29. I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with him after I returned to work following Mr C’s death and the compassion and kindness he had shown me. How on earth could he have died in such a senseless way? His partner is in my immediate team at work. She is one of the most selfless people you could ever hope to meet. Simply lovely. Again. I felt helpless. I remember walking into my lounge after the call and my daughter asking me why I was crying again. I wanted to make something up. I couldn’t bear to tell her the reality that yet again somebody else I knew had died young. All you want to do as a mother is protect your child from hurt and pain, and here I was again telling her just how unfathomable life can be at times. How reality really can suck at times. But we had the conversation. Because this is what reality is. I can’t shield her from it. I can’t shield her from pain.

It’s why we have such an honest relationship. Because I’ve worked out that she deserves honesty. For a child of 11, she has been exposed to so very much. It breaks my heart. And while I don’t tell her everything, we do talk about so much. Because our reality has meant we’ve had to, we can’t shy away from pain, hurt and suffering. We talk about the fact I have counselling. Because over the past 21 months, I’ve spent 11 of them in counselling. It’s made me look at myself. It’s made me question a lot. And it’s also given me answers and helped me begin to come to terms with my reality. But nearly a year in therapy? I’d never have expected this. Even though I know how beneficial it is, the reality is that it’s still hard to come to terms with needing it in the way I have. To help me survive and be able to live a daily life. And despite the dialogue on mental health changing, it can at times be slightly taboo to talk about it and be open about being in counselling. To the point the fact I was having it was used against me at the start of the year.

I don’t hold it against the person who said it to me, because the reality I’ve come to accept in 2021 is that there is still a lot that society doesn’t understand about grief, mental health and life in general. I had a conversation at work recently about how society as a whole tends to focus on the negative, what you haven’t done, what you could do better etc… You hear the phrase “can I give you some feedback?” and instantly bristle because you assume it’ll be bad. To say “I’m having counselling” can, in some instances, cause judgement. The perception is you’re not right. You’re not good enough.

But do you know what? 2021 has seen me become ok with that. I’ve come to accept that I will never be good enough for everyone. I’ve come to accept that there will be things I do that people can’t understand. Because that’s reality. But equally, I judge and do it to myself. I will automatically talk about everything that I’ve not been able to do since Mr C died. Because isn’t that what we’ve been taught to do? Focus on the negative? I’ll tell you I’m not as efficient as I once was. My brain doesn’t work in the same way. I’ll walk away rather than fight for what I believe in because I can’t handle stress. I don’t have as much patience or tolerance. I forget things. I buy presents for birthdays and Christmas and worry that they’re not good enough, but the truth is I’ve simply run out of energy at trying to get everything right. I have mum guilt like never before. I haven’t achieved as much at work as I’d have liked. I don’t call or message people enough. I haven’t been as good a friend as I might have been before because I don’t put as much effort in.

Yet this is where the counselling has helped and the Emma at the end of 2021 compared to the Emma at the end of 2020 tells herself to wind her neck in. Because I need to acknowledge that I’ve achieved a hell of a lot this year. I deserve to feel proud of myself. Whatever anyone else thinks or says. That is the reality. I have launched my own blog that has not only helped me but has also helped others. I organised my late husband’s Memorial Service which gave so many people the chance to say goodbye to him. I’ve learnt how to show my vulnerability. I’ve continued to work. I’ve kept a roof over our heads. I’ve organised home improvements. I’ve pretty much done everything we used to do as part of a partnership single-handedly. I can now go into supermarkets again. I’ve become an ambassador for Widowed and Young. I’ve taken my daughter away, to friends, to festivals, to theatres. I’ve given her new memories. But more than that. I’ve somehow got out of bed on days when I don’t want to. I’ve still put one foot in front of the other. Every single day. My daughter has not gone without love. There has not been a single day she hasn’t felt my love even when I’m in the pit of despair. This is my reality that I need to focus on more. What I have done. There will always be people who are quick enough to tell me what I haven’t done or should have done differently. But I need to have more faith and belief in myself. To remember what I have done. What I have achieved.

I’ve been reminded so much of this throughout this month. In the run up to Christmas, my daughter said “I just don’t understand why this Christmas is so much harder than last year.” We spoke about how last year we were in shock and survival mode. Whereas now we’ve spent the whole year coming to terms with the reality that her daddy really is gone. He’s never coming home. We will never spend another Christmas with him again. And that’s why it’s so much harder. Because it’s real. As each day passes, our reality and life without him crystallises. I listened to her repeatedly tell me she was over Christmas. I watched her sit on the sofa and refuse to move. I’ve just had to cuddle her because there was nothing else I could do to help her. But Christmas Day came and the punt of an idea I had for her present changed everything. She smiled again. She laughed. She sang her heart out on the karaoke machine. Yes, Christmas Day resulted in me being absolutely exhausted again because of the energy I’d needed to put into helping my little girl, but seeing her happy made everything worthwhile. I achieved that. I helped her get through it. And this just reinforced the reality that I’ve had to come to terms with in 2021. The ability to accept the rough with the smooth.

I can’t lie. I have very mixed emotions saying goodbye to 2021. The first year since 1974 that Stuart Charlesworth hasn’t been alive for any of it. Since 1996 that he’s not physically been a part of my life. A year which has caused so much new heartache and pain. A year which has seen relationships break down. A year which has seen me fall apart repeatedly. Yet it’s also been a year which has seen me smile, laugh, dance and hug more. It’s been a year that has seen me start to think about my future and my new reality. For the first time in such a long time, I can answer “I’m ok” and mean it when people ask me how I am. That’s not to say I’m of the view that life has become all cupcakes and rainbows. It hasn’t. I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to. Because I’m going to make sure I remember one thing in 2022…

I am good enough.

I am 1 in 4

Eight years ago today, I became a statistic. In the month that Baby Loss Awareness Week takes place, I become a statistic. Funny really how the most painful experiences in my life are linked to statistics. But this is one that shouldn’t be a taboo and more people should feel comfortable talking about, because it will happen to 1 in 4 pregnancies. 1 in 4 will result in a miscarriage. Eight years ago, I became one of those 1 in 4 when I experienced a missed miscarriage.

For anyone who has never heard that term before (I hadn’t until I had one), put simply it’s where the body doesn’t recognise the baby has died. So, you don’t tend to have any bleeding or signs that something is wrong and you carry on unaware that the pregnancy isn’t successful. I say unaware, but I can vividly remember saying to Mr C shortly before we found out that I didn’t feel pregnant anymore. At the time, he told me not to worry, that I’d not really suffered when I’d been pregnant with Miss C and he put it down to me approaching 12 weeks.

So, I carried on following the guidance for pregnancy despite the fact that something was niggling me. On the day of my 12-week scan, I left the office early, Mr C picked me up from the station and en route to the hospital we went to a camping shop as we had a small amount of time to kill. We wandered for a bit and I picked up four clips to put on a table to hold your glass in. But as we went to pay, I put one back because something told me I wasn’t going to need four, after all, there were only three of us in Family Charlesworth. I didn’t make a fuss and I doubt Mr C even realised but I remember doing it. A few years later we were in the same shop. I stood in front of those clips and cried because of the memory they evoked. When we finally got to the hospital and the receptionist asked me if I wanted to pay for my photos ahead of the scan appointment, I almost retorted that there was no point because we wouldn’t need any. But I figured Mr C would just tell me off for being negative, so I kept quiet and made that payment.

When we were called in, I didn’t say anything, I dutifully answered all their questions. And then they started the scan. It was at this point that I knew something wasn’t right. Because they were silent. They weren’t talking to me about our baby. Four years previously when I’d had my first scan with Miss C, they’re been talking to me pretty much from the off. I remember crying as I saw our very much wanted baby wriggling around for the first time. But this time, there was nothing. There was just silence. Until we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…”

The sonographer went to bring someone else in for a second opinion. Again, we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…” There was no heartbeat. It looked like there was fluid on the baby’s brain. The baby had stopped growing approximately three weeks earlier. I’d been walking around for three weeks with a dead baby inside me and until that confirmation at the appointment, had been blissfully unaware of what was to come. I later learnt from the consultant that this was due to the pregnancy hormone reducing, my niggling feeling and not feeling pregnant was because of the hormones reducing. Had we not gone for that 12-week scan and found out, it’s likely my body would have realised anyway, it just took it a while.

We were dealt with very sensitively. Someone went to get me a refund for those photos I’d paid for. Looking back now, I wish with all I have that I’d insisted on still having photos. As macabre as that might sound, I have nothing other than memories to look back on. There’s no proof that this even happened. And since Mr C died, I have no-one to remember it with me. Days like today are just another reminder that the person I shared my life and experiences with is no longer here.

We made the decision that I would have a D&C. I felt that this was the best way to deal with what had happened. It would hopefully mean that there would be minimal impact on Miss C. It would mean that I was in control of what came next (needing to be in control is a very common theme with me). So, two days after our scan we went back to the hospital for the surgery. I sat in the car park and cried, refusing to go in because to go in would make this nightmare real. It would mean that this was really happening. Six and a half years later I’d do pretty much the same thing at the same hospital when I had to go and collect Mr C’s belongings. The hospital where we had our beloved daughter, where I was operated on after losing our second baby was also the hospital where Mr C died. And every single time, they’ve treated me with kindness and respect.

Going home after the D&C was surreal. I wasn’t in any real pain. It really was as though nothing had really happened. I could drink alcohol again. I could eat what I wanted. Overnight, life was returning to the way it was. Except for one thing. Me. It would take me a long time to return to normal after this. Not least because my body physically took a look time to recover and go back to normal. Mentally I felt like a failure. I felt like I’d done something wrong. Yes, I knew that this was just one of those things and it happens to 1 in 4 pregnancies, but it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. It didn’t stop me feeling as though I’d let Mr C and our baby down because I hadn’t been able to have a successful pregnancy. But the strangest thing of all was that despite this, I didn’t really know how to feel. A week after the D&C I couldn’t stop crying. I remember locking myself in the bathroom and ringing Mr C to tell him that I didn’t know how to stop crying. That I didn’t want to cry in front of Miss C because I didn’t know how to tell her what was wrong. She was three years old; how do you explain it? She was confused enough that I wasn’t working and was at home every day. That was enough for her to get her little head round!

I remember telling people not to be nice to me. Not to treat me differently. People would tell me it was ok to grieve, but in all honesty, I didn’t know what I was grieving for. I’d never met this baby. How can you grieve for something you’ve never really had in your life? But I was grieving. I was grieving for a lost future. I was grieving for our future family. Even now I grieve for that. Even now I still wonder who that baby would have been. Would they have been a boy or a girl? Would they have been like Miss C? What would they be into? Would it have made a difference to Miss C to have had a sibling when her father died? While the raw pain has dissipated, the “what if” that I feel even eight years on is just as strong.

And I also wonder “what if” about how I dealt with it at the time. What if I’d been more honest and spoken about it more. I know there will be people I worked with at the time who may read this now having had no idea of what I went through. Because I chose not to talk about it. I chose to pretend nothing had happened. I can’t remember for definite, but I’m fairly sure I only told two people at work. I went back to work after two weeks and the majority of people had no idea why I’d been off. It wasn’t that I was ashamed, it was just I wanted to carry on as normal. To talk about it would have forced me to deal with it. As I write this now, I have no idea why I took this approach. I’d have been given understanding. I’d have been given time. It would have meant that when I bumped into one of my friends at work, she’d have been a bit more prepared for me breaking on her. All she did was just ask me how I was because she hadn’t seen me for a while, and I cried. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. The experiences I’ve gone through since have made me realise that it’s ok to talk about miscarriage, about mental health, about grief. Because they’re all part of what is “normal.” They’re all part of who I am and what has happened on my rollercoaster life.

So today I remember. I think about my favourite and most treasured “what if.” I will always think about what might have been. And I talk about it. Because I am, and it’s ok to be, 1 in 4.

The art of being social

Since 3 July, I’ve posted five times on Instagram. I’ve posted 12 tweets. For someone who usually posts a daily #BeThankful on both platforms and actively uses them, this is unusual behaviour. But taking this step back is absolutely something I’ve needed to do. I’ve needed to take some time out from the world. To take stock. To look after me. To have some very much needed R&R. This was what I shared with the world on Wednesday when I decided I was going to start dabbling on social media again. With a picture of a quote from one of our favourite John Mayer songs “I’m in repair. I’m not together but I’m getting there…”

Because I am getting there. And as I reflect on the past month, I can honestly say that I have missed being “social.” Not to begin with, because social media can be a double edged sword. As much as I like it, seeing people celebrating wedding anniversaries, moving house, having fun in couples, going on holiday or photos of dads with their children can at times just be too painful. It’s a reminder of what I’ve lost. But over the last week or so I’ve found myself wanting to start using these platforms again. Partly because I consider myself to now be in repair with a brain somewhat functioning again (rather than being at rock bottom) but also because it’s become a part of who I am. I know social media is an intensely personal preference. Some people love it, some hate it and some are in between. And don’t get me wrong. As much I as enjoy using it, I don’t profess to be a social media influencer (mainly because I don’t even know what that means!) but I do like and value the platform social media gives me (even if at times Instagram confuses me!)

It’s why I made a very conscious decision to use social media as a way of telling our story when Mr C fell ill last year. It would have been easy to hide away and not use it, but that’s just not who I am. I firmly believe social media isn’t just about the positives. Life isn’t cupcakes and rainbows all the time so why should your social media feeds be this way? But more than that. When Mr C fell ill, we were right at the start of the first lockdown. There were no such things as support bubbles or childcare bubbles. The only support I was able to get was via phone calls, via messages, via Zoom calls or via social media. The wealth of love and support I got was overwhelming. I’ll forever be grateful for it. One of my colleagues and friends sent me a Twitter DM and asked how I was on a particularly bad day. I answered honestly how I was feeling, and she then promised to check in on me every single day. She did. It meant a lot. And despite the physical loneliness and pain of what I was going through, I can remember thinking at the time how fortunate I was that all this was happening to me at a time when technology made that contact that much easier. I knew that via any number of platforms, there would always, always be someone I could reach out to if I needed to. And just type what I was thinking. It was invaluable. Why? Because when your world is falling apart and you don’t know which way is up, actually speaking to people can be so, so hard. I lost count of the phone calls I had when people would ask how I was, and I’d not be able to answer or would just simply cry on them. I was always so very mindful of how hard that must have been for those at the other end of the phone. Unable to do anything but merely try and offer small words of comfort to a woman whose entire life had been torn apart.

Yet despite this decision, there has been so much over the last 16 months that I haven’t shared. Because so much is incredibly personal to me and my family. What you see on any of my platforms is the snapshot of my life that I am comfortable to share. There is so very much more to me than this but I actually feel it would be quite dull if I shared everything, because in all honesty, I’m just a 40 year-old trying to get by and I really don’t do very much. If I was to post every time I have a wobble or a cry or a bad day or even just something I consider a small win, it really would get quite monotonous. But the people who know me, know that despite whatever I choose to share on social media, these everyday occurrences, falling apart and good moments are still happening. But I also don’t post about them all because I don’t necessarily want to be reminded of them in years to come via Facebook Memories or Timehop. I’m regularly sideswiped when memories of family activities or time with Mr C crop up, I don’t need to be reminded in years to come of how ridiculously difficult and heartbreaking my life has been since 22 March 2020. Because without a shadow of a doubt these feelings and memories will stay with me for as long as I live. Instead, I want to be reminded of the new memories my daughter and I are creating. What we’re doing to honour Mr C. Things that are making me smile. Yet, unwittingly, to the outside world this seems to create a parallel reality. A few months ago, I had someone tell me via a Facebook post that I am “always so happy.” Seven months after my husband died. At that point I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d have used the phrase “so happy” and so quickly refuted that statement on the post. I’ll openly acknowledge that I share aspects of what we’re doing, and that I am having to continue living my life. For me. For my daughter. But the phrase that was used to describe this started to make me think about the perception social media inadvertently creates vs. reality.

As I’ve said, I’ve been incredibly lucky with the support I’ve had via social media. But for me what is interesting is the different approach people have to what they say on social media vs. their everyday actions. I’ve had people comment that they will “always be there for me” but then not return phone calls or acknowledge messages I send. Forgive me if I’m missing something, but if you’re telling the social media world that you’ll always be there for me but aren’t in the real world isn’t that a bit of a disconnect? Now don’t get me wrong, I know only too well how much of a juggle life can be trying to fit everything in and stay in touch, but little things like this get me thinking.

I’ve had people de-friend me since Mr C died. I’ve had people delete posts they’ve made where I’ve offered a different perspective to their viewpoint. I struggle to understand why. Isn’t the clue in the title? Social media? Isn’t the whole point of it to be able to share different views, have conversations and generally be social? Again, I don’t profess to know the exact reason that I’ve been de-friended or why posts have been deleted, but from my point of view if you can’t offer a different perspective when people make posts, then I’m not sure it’s worth it. It’s like in any other social setting. I can spend evenings with friends, family or colleagues and we can have discussions. Not everyone will think the same, not everyone will agree and there will always be different viewpoints, but the difference is you can’t just delete something you’ve said in person and try to pretend it never existed. Why should social media be any different to the real world? I love a good debate, I don’t expect everyone to have the same opinion as me and in fact I’d hate it if we suddenly all had to agree and be the same. That would make the world an incredibly dull place in my view!

But, what makes me most sad, is that on more than one occasion this year I’ve used the phrase that my daughter “is for life, not just for social media.” She’s only 11 and, despite her constant badgering for TikTok, I don’t yet allow her to be on any social media platform. Mainly because, in my opinion, she doesn’t have the emotional maturity for it. She’s a child. She’s trusting. She takes people at face value. She believes people when they say they’re going to do something. So, if she had seen half of the comments I’ve had on the various posts I’ve made over the last 16 months, she’d have had far greater expectations of people. And right now, she’d be feeling incredibly let down. Because it’s very easy to put a comment or a like on a post I make but the reality is that she doesn’t see these and needs real-life support. And while I’ll always be so very grateful for all the virtual support I’ve had, and will continue to receive, over the past few months I’ve realised that I’ve also needed that real-life support more than ever. And I’d underestimated just how much until Mr C’s Memorial Service last month.

It will probably come as no surprise to those who know me or who are familiar with grief and bereavement that this Memorial Service is what ultimately led me to withdraw from social media for a while. Quite simply there was too much in my brain in the lead up to it, and in the immediate aftermath to even begin to think about posting content. But over the last month or so since I’ve taken a step back, I’ve also realised how much of a part of my everyday life social media has become. How it can actually be used for good and have a great impact. When your friend has a baby but because of all the various lockdowns you can’t physically visit them, you can still see news about them and watch them grow (we’ve finally be able to meet the baby who is now 13 months old and every bit as gorgeous as social media would have you believe). When you post a blog and a stranger takes the time to send you a message to say “I don’t know if you need to hear this, but I wanted to let you know you’ve helped a stranger today.” When you feel like the only person in the world to have a problem and post on the private Widowed and Young group and receive a ton of encouragement and support to reassure you that you’re not alone. When someone from the other side of the world messages you because she’s heard your podcast, noticed the similarities of your stories and subsequently becomes a friend you can turn to. I could go on. But ultimately social media has, and I’ve no doubt will, continue to have a positive influence on my life.

So, as I continue my repair of me and head back to work tomorrow, I know that my social media usage will be increasing again. Because I’ve missed my work Twitter family. I’ve missed the banter with all the Jason fans (although admittedly this has been on the increase over the past few days). I’ve missed doing a daily #BeThankful. I’ve missed engaging with people that I’d never normally come into contact with. But if I’ve learnt anything during my time away, it’s that as the world starts to open up again there is absolutely a place in my life for both social media and the real world. I don’t want to withdraw and hide away from the real world because it’s easier to hide behind words and pictures. I need physical and real-life contact. I value social media interaction more than I can really articulate and wouldn’t change it for the world, but I will always, always need the phone calls, the messages, the chats and catch ups. But most importantly. The hugs. I know that as I work through this current phase of my grief, I’m going to need a lot of hugs and hand holding. And you simply can’t get that through watching the likes and comments increase on a social media post.

A letter to my 15-year-old self

I’m writing this to you today because I really wish someone had been able to tell me this 25 years ago. To reassure me that everything was going to be ok. To let me know that I would survive everything that life had to throw at me. Many people are looking back at 1996 right now, each one of them with their own reasons for doing so. But for you, 1996 is going to be the start of your life changing. It’s important you understand just how important this year is going to be.

So. Quite simply, 1996 is going to be a pivotal year for you. It’s going to be one you’ll remember for many reasons and for many years to come. Not least of which will be Euro 96 and the heartache that will come from a missed penalty. Don’t worry though, you’ve only got to wait another 25 years for a tournament like it. Although, spoiler alert. There’s going to be penalties involved again.

I must admit I’m going to start shallow with my words of advice. Right now, you’ve still got long hair, yet within a couple of years you’re going to cut this off. I know, I know, you’re laughing at this prospect. But you will, you’ll spend most of your adult life with short hair and whenever it grows, you won’t feel like you. Go with it, dye your hair, try different styles but always go back to short hair. It looks good on you.

And now for the serious stuff. Over the course of this year, you’re going to fall in love for the first time. It’ll feel like the best thing in the world. He’ll make you feel like the most special person in the world. However. You’re also going to have your heart broken for the first time too. This is something that you’re going to have go through, it’s almost like a rite of passage. All I can say is that it will hurt like hell. You’re going to shed a bucketload of tears. It’s going to leave you taking a sharp intake of breath whenever you hear certain songs. Always. But you’ll reach a point where these songs will not only cause that intake of breath, but also make you smile. Why? Because you are going to get over this heartbreak. Honestly. It will become a part of your story. I won’t lie to you though. You’re going to hate him for a while, you’re going to want horrible things to happen to him, you’ll think you’re never going to recover and that you’re never going to love again but you really are. On more than one occasion. But do you know what? Don’t be too quick to judge him. Don’t waste your time on hate. Because as inconceivable as this is going to sound right now, that first boyfriend is going to turn out to be not all bad. Really. He’s going to end up becoming one of your closest friends. He’s going to be a rock for you after the death of your husband (we’ll come onto that bombshell in a bit). He’s going to be one of the key people holding you up. Crazy huh?!? But I promise you it’s true. You’re going to be incredibly lucky that he not only comes into your life in 1996, but that he stays a part of it.

But of far more significance to you, 1996 is going to be the year you’ll meet your future husband. Of course, you won’t know this at the time, but he really is going to come into your life in the summer. You’ll meet him standing by his blue fiesta outside Central Park, the home of Sittingbourne FC. You won’t give him a second thought. He won’t actually give you a second thought to be begin with. Over the course of the next few months and years when people ask you who he is, you’ll say “just Charlie.” 1996 is the year that he’ll move from Essex to Kent, a key factor in how and why he’ll start to appear in your life more and more. Don’t underestimate the role that he’s going to play. Cut him a bit of slack when he tries to woo you. Still play hard to get, because it’ll give you a story to tell, but just try to prepare yourself for the massive impact that man is going to have on your life.

I know you worry that you’re not the most popular girl at school. But it really, really doesn’t matter. Because you have such an amazing group of friends there and that counts for so, so much. Always treasure them. Over the next 25 years you’re going to need them in different ways and at different times. But always, always treasure them. They get you. Even when you don’t see them for a few years, when you get together it will feel like nothing has changed. And during the most difficult times of your life they’ll be there. Without fail. Without judgement. But more than this. You are going to go on to meet and make other wonderful and supportive friends. You’re going to meet and have so many fabulous people in your life. You’re going to be so loved. And while some friendships will drift apart, that’s only natural after all, the ones where there’s no demand or expectation from either side will be the ones that see you through. You’ll count your blessings that you have so many of them.

This year, you’re going to start looking ahead to your career and future as you start to consider your A-Level choices. Right now, you’re going to see yourself as a journalist. You’re going to apply to university to study journalism. But your A-Level results aren’t going to go the way you planned. You’re not going to get into your first-choice university. But you will still go. You will still persevere with the course for three months. But then one day, you’re going to realise it’s not right for you. You’re going to drop out. It’s one of the bravest things you’re ever going to do. Doing what’s right for you. You need to remember to do more of this. Putting you first and doing what’s right for you. Again, I’m not going to lie, you’re going to feel scared and nervous. You’re going to wonder what next, but it will all fall into place. You will go on to have a good career. It’s going to change over time, you’ll head down a secretarial route before switching to marketing but you’re going to be just fine. Of course, there will be instances during your career where’ll you have had enough. Where you’ll be beyond frustrated. Where you’ll query why you bother. Where you’ll want to quit. But just keep going. Things have a funny way of turning out for the best when you least expect it. Just remember that you’re the one in control. You’re the one that can change things. And don’t be afraid to. This is your life, nobody else can live it for you.

And throughout your career, there’ll be one constant. The people. Your colleagues. Who will become friends and confidantes. Who’ll offer support and a friendly ear. Who’ll be there with gin and fried food. Who’ll be there with doughnuts. Who’ll be there with “Smile Thursdays”. Who’ll be there with straight talking. Who’ll give you the tough love you need. And above all else, will help look after you in a way that you simply won’t think possible on the day you walk through the doors of 1 Embankment Place for the first time. You’re not going to, but I just want to tell you to never, ever take them for granted

Yet without fail, I wish I could prepare you for just how much heartache you’re going to go through. And to give you the knowledge that you will make it through all of it. That heartache is going to come in many forms. It will come when you must confront living with depression and anxiety. It will come when your boyfriend is diagnosed with cancer and you have no idea if he’s going to make it. It will come every month when you just can’t fall pregnant. It will come when close friends tell you that they’re pregnant again and you break down on them. It will come when you’re pregnant with your second child and have a missed miscarriage. That “what if” of that baby will never go away, but the pain of this and the other heartaches will ease with time.

Right. Take a deep breath before you read this next paragraph. Because, this is the one where I talk about you being widowed. Where I tell you that this will happen when you’re 39. Where I tell you that the greatest heartache you’ll have to face will come in 2020, when your husband of 14 years (that random guy you met in 1996) will die during a global pandemic. (Oh yes, incidentally during 2020 and 2021 you’re going to have to live through a global pandemic and your entire life will be turned upside down). The pain and heartache this will cause you will be nothing like you have ever, ever felt before. That broken heart in 1996? A mere paper cut compared to this. The grief is going to be unbearable at times. You are going to break. You are going to hit rock bottom. You are going to think you’re doing ok and then get side swiped and fall apart. But the one thing you absolutely need to remember is to ask for help. To admit that you can’t do this alone. To let the tears flow when they need to do. To be kind to yourself. To stop. To breathe. To acknowledge just how difficult this is. As I write this, I don’t know if you’re ever going to love or feel love like it again. But I do know that you’ll feel the love from your husband for a very long time.

But above all else, I want you to know just how much joy and happiness there’s going to be in your life. How despite all the heartache and hardships you’re going to go through, you will smile. How you will enjoy your life. How you’re going to have a beautiful and simply inspirational daughter even though it’ll take you a while to get her. How you’re going to meet some truly brilliant people when you cave and take her to postnatal group in the vague hope she might find some friends. How you will go on to make so many fabulous memories with these people. How there’s going to be so much laughter in your life. How you’ll stop worrying about everything all the time. How you’ll stop trying to fit in and how you’ll come to actually quite like yourself. This is the one thing I wish more than anything that you could know, and I could teach you. It would change your life during your 20s and 30s. But by the time you reach 40, you’ll know this. Promise.

I know you’re never going to see this. But you’ll never know how much I wish you could have. To have had someone confirm that despite everything you’re going to go through, you’re going to be ok. You really, really are. And that will largely be down to the people who come into your life, it will be down to your determination to never give up, it will be down to your willingness to accept help, it will be down to your realisation that there is always, always something to be thankful for. When you learn, accept and remember this, I promise you more than anything that you’re going to be just fine.

And now as I sign off, I can’t help but wonder if this letter has really been for you or something I actually need to remind my 40-year-old self. Because no matter how good she might be at giving out the advice, she definitely still needs reminding from time to time to take it.

Me xx

Celebrating the life of Mr C

Yesterday would have been Charlie’s 47th birthday. It was the perfect day to host his Memorial Service and Celebration of Life. I thought about writing a blog for the day but then realised the speech I read said pretty much everything I wanted to say. And I even managed to make it all the way through in one piece!

Well, it turns out there’s a reason I write instead of speaking. It’s actually quite intimidating to stand here and see you all today. But hey, I’m going to give it a go. And please bear with me. As an aside, there are tissues provided on the table and this is your disclaimer that you may need them! Charlie got everyone with his speech at our wedding, so now it’s my turn.

Firstly, I wish we weren’t all here today. In the nicest possible way, I wish we weren’t all here. But we are and we all know why. We’re here for a very good reason. To remember and to celebrate my husband. Stuart Peter Charlesworth. “Charlie”. I still find it surreal and unbelievable to use the phrase “my late husband.” so I don’t tend to. Because let’s be honest, he was never late! I equally still find it difficult to comprehend what’s happened, and if I’m completely honest, I probably never will.

I have gone through every emotion possible since ringing 999 in the early hours of my 39th birthday. Since I saw the fear in his eyes. Since I saw the panic on our daughter’s face. There are days I go through every emotion possible in 24 hours. Losing him is a pain like nothing I have ever experienced before. It is something I pray I never have to go through again.

But today isn’t about me. It’s about Charlie. A man I first met nearly 25 years ago outside Central Park, the home of Sittingbourne FC. He was stood by his blue fiesta and I had no idea then the role he’d gone on to play in my life. I remember sitting in Steve and Libbie’s lounge a few weeks later listening to him say he wasn’t going to go to a Bryan Adams gig because there was a chance it would be Sittingbourne’s last ever game on the same day and he needed to be there. Because that was Charlie. Dedicated and loyal. To know him was to love him, to know him was to be loved by him. Whether you’d known him for a few months, years or a lifetime, it didn’t matter. He treated everyone equally. When he came into your life, you felt it. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m well aware that he’ll have frustrated all of us at some point or another with his rule master behaviour, rolling his eyes, his tendency to always want to be right (yes, really), and some of his Charlie-isms. But when I look back now, these tend to pale into insignificance. The impact he had on each and every one of us in this room ultimately comes down to love, friendship, authenticity and laughter.

When I see everyone here today, I feel humbled and overwhelmed that you all made the effort to be here. For him. For me and Rebekah. I can’t thank you all enough for doing this, I know so many of you were added at short notice because of the change in guidelines, but it didn’t matter. You wanted to be here and that means the world to us. For those of you who’ve had to travel some distance, I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. Charlie would be so, so honoured at the effort you’ve all gone to, so thank you.

I look around this room at how all aspects of his life are represented. And the people who are here show what a full life it was. Childhood friends and their families, his bands, Sporting Sittingbourne, family, friends. I really do thank you all for being here with us today to celebrate him. But also, two amazing people who were due to be here but unfortunately illness meant they couldn’t be. Two amazing people who I only got to know because he fell ill. Two people who were there for Rebekah and me during the agonising days of ITU, two people who become our lifeline for a week. Our Skype angels, Mel and Sharon. I’ll never be able to repay you and the rest of the ITU team for all you did and continue to do for us. Thank you.

And without wanting this to turn into an awards acceptance speech, I do have some other thank yous! None of these people are here today, but I want to say thank you and acknowledge in front of you all the role that my colleagues have played over the last 15 months. They’ve seen me at my best, they’ve seen me at worst. They’ve supported me throughout, they’ve seen me via online meetings way more than friends and family, they’ve dealt with my tears this week on calls and listened to me rehearse this speech. They really have been a fundamental part of the scaffolding that’s held me up.

And now for the tough part. To thank people who are here today. To Rob for your tribute. Just perfect. Thank you to Elliott for always overthinking yet still managing to deliver a great reflection. To James for your reading. It was just so right to have you all speak, Charlie would have known how hard it would be for you all but been so honoured that you all said yes. And once again, I’m indebted to you Estella. For the time you gave helping me organise the church including the seating and social distancing. For the beautiful service. You did it at his funeral and you have done it again today. I don’t underestimate how much of a challenge this would have been for you on both occasions, I’m so very, very grateful.

But in addition to today, I know Charlie would be so grateful at how so many of you have been there for his wife and daughter in the darkest time of their lives. Who have picked me up off the floor (both literally and metaphorically), who have picked up the phone or sent messages, who have been there without judgement, who have appeared on my doorstep with a Costa when you’ve text and I’ve said I’m having a bad day, who have turned up with gin and hair dye to stop me stressing in advance of his funeral, who have cooked us meals, who have looked after Rebekah, who have let me break down on them when it all gets too much. Thank you. You all know individually the role you’ve played, how you’ve supported us and how you’ve been there for us. I simply can’t detail it all. But from the bottom of my heart and I’m sure his, thank you.

I also want to thank the person Charlie always said was his greatest achievement. Our greatest achievement. Our beautiful, brave daughter Rebekah. You astonished me when you spoke at his funeral last year and have done it again today with singing for him. But more than that. Quite simply, I would not still be standing without you. You have been my reason for getting out of bed every single morning for the last 15 months. You have inspired me to keep going. Earlier this week when I said I wasn’t going to come today because the enormity of it all hit, you were the one talking sense into me. Just like daddy would have done. Without a shadow of a doubt, you have been phenomenal. I am so unbelievably proud of you. Daddy would be so unbelievably proud of you. Everyone in this room could learn so very much from you and how you have coped with losing your dad at the age of 10, I know I have.

But the biggest thank you I have to say is to Charlie himself. I think back to the last night he was at home. When I asked if he wanted me to stay with him while he shaved, he said no, so I trundled downstairs, finished the ironing and watched my Jason concert. No way Jason wasn’t going to get a mention in this speech! But in all seriousness, if I had known what was going to happen six hours later, I’d have sat on that bathroom floor. I’d have talked non-stop at him. He’d have absolutely hated it! I’d have said thank you. I’d have thanked him for the love he gave me for over 20 years, for the love he gave our daughter, for the laughter, for the influence he had on us. For being my wingman when it came to parenting. For the fact that it’s down to him that a number of you are in my life. For always taking and twiddling the photos, for introducing me to new music, for teaching us board game rules. For so much more. But most importantly, for the lessons he taught me, that it’s ok to be me. That I don’t need to be perfect, I just need to be me. Warts and all. For teaching me that I don’t need to conform, that people either accept me for who I am or they don’t. And that’s ok. I don’t need to change who I am to fit in. If I had the night of 29th March 2020 all over again, this is what I would say. Thank you Charlie. For everything.

It is a cliché to say he is always with us, but he really is. The music we’re listening to today are the songs that people told me reminded them of him and make them smile. I’ve turned it into a Spotify playlist so you can all share those memories. The seeds on the table that you can all take and plant in memory of him. Wherever you like, scatter them at his bench, scatter them in your garden. Wherever. Just do it to celebrate and remember him. He loved a wildflower and helping the bees, so again, it helps him live on. The memory cards that are on your table. Write your memory, funny, sad, thoughtful. Again, just share this. It’s all part of keeping him part of us. I vowed to him on the day he died that I would never, ever let him be forgotten. Yes, Rebekah and I are having to move forward with our lives, but I know that he will be a part of mine for as a long as I live. He will be a part of our daughter’s life for as long as she lives. And I hope in some small way, he will and we will continue to be a part of your lives too.

So. I’ve made it. Just. Please, please carry on smiling today. Take the photos, make the memories. You know it’s what he’d have been doing. When you watch the Euro final tomorrow, think of him. He’d have been loving this tournament. And as for making the final over his birthday weekend. It’s what dreams are made of. Only one other thing to say really before I wrap up. It’s coming home.

And finally, I’d like to ask you all to stand, to raise a glass and to toast Charlie, Dad, Stuart, Son, Bro. Whatever you called him, just raise that glass and make that toast. To Charlie.

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